


Writing Practice

by flohralism



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Writing Exercise, descriptive, descriptive writing, practice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:54:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28831539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flohralism/pseuds/flohralism
Summary: A random collection of my descriptive writings, for practice





	1. Chapter 1

The first strands of dawn slowly seeps through the interweaving fabric of clouds. Tones of sheer blush, tangerine, honey, and every impossible shade in between erupted from the shadows - the shadows that once encompassed the plethora of colors from the earth. Morning dew speckled the forest like transparent crystal, dangerously accumulating on the blades of a leaf from crashing down onto the foliage below. A mixture of succulent sweetness and tangy herbs wafted and twisted and bleeded through each flower, every tree, every inch and corner of the forest. Clusters of sapphire, ruby and amethyst adorned pillows of lush emerald leaves like a royal crown. A pair of butterflies, glowing with a sheer frost, waltzed amidst the rhythm of distant birdsong. Although unsyncopated, their heartbeats ensconced the very essence of a classical ballroom dance. The summer heat roamed in a light mist, mixing in with the needles of tanginess from the overripe berries. 

The blanket of foliage softens the landing of a leather boot, a heavy crunching sound resonating through the quiet peace of the forest. The sweltering heat of the summer blaze was almost tangible; a thin layer of sweat enveloped your forehead, the simple cotton fabric of your collar soaking up what remained. Your clear eyes glistened in curiosity as you reached out for a ripened fruit suspended on a tree. A wind blows. As your long white cloak flowed like a winding river, the breeze gently caressed your cheek, softer than feathers. Strands of your hair framed your face as you balanced on your toes to reach for the fruit. “Almost there,” you thought, but the fruit stood suspended there, as if it were taunting you. 

You were just about to touch the fruit when a voice whispered like the wind.  
“That’s poisonous.”


	2. Practice 2: Dystopian city

Obelisks as tall as the sky towered over you, trapping you in a jungle of skyscrapers. Weaving through the smallest of spaces in between, alleyways lost their purpose as the towers seemed to lean towards each other, closer and closer. Inch by inch, they were knitted together as if huddling for warmth. With the entire horizon now obstructed with buildings, you could no longer tell up from down, left from right, or front from behind. You felt lost.  
A single, lonesome asphalt ribbon stretched and unfurled and twisted into every angle possible. The lingering smell of rain and the ghosts of traffic lights entwined together, creating a phantom-like feeling, as if this city had lost its very essence of life. There was not even a beating pulse of a heartbeat, not even a figment of the echoing sounds of life seemed to remain in this abandonment. The traffic lights flickered. An irritating, repetitive beeping noise kept replaying in the distant frays of the road. The traffic light switched green, emitting an artificial, incandescent glow upon the encasing towers. Plastic green traced the glistening surface of the damp asphalt, and the mellow aroma of gentle mist filled your nostrils. However oddly comforting the smell was, it was as if darkness had a scent.  
Through the blanket of mist and fog, a battered vehicle had crouched in the corner of the road, shrouded by iron gates as if it were imprisoned like you. Below the vehicle, the engine was crying, gasoline dripping down the sides in an agonizingly slow pace and glazing the surface of the road in a sheer liquid. Surrounding you was now the familiar smell of smoke, its dull and bitter scent penetrating through the veils of mist, and fusing into a palette of graphite. A droplet of gasoline slid down the engine, falling, falling, and colliding into the puddle of fuel and rainwater on the pavement.  
You look up, towards this ceiling made of layers upon layers of concrete and metal. As if you would expect for a sky to look back at you, there remained nothing but snaking pipes and a monotone mixture of structures; a painful reminder of this prison. Trapped. Sealed. Forgotten. You notice a sliver of light, an inch of a gap between the buildings, just barely visible from the elevation of the buildings. Out of instinct, your hands raise through the mist, trying to reach the unreachable; you delude yourself that the stars were within your grasp. The stars - the only fiber of humanity left in this mundane universe; the only source of nature left in this apocalyptic fantasy; the only thread left of yourself within yourself.


End file.
